


Your Enclosure

by AmityRavenclawElf



Series: Yandere Characters [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Newt's Suitcase, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Protective Newt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 16:18:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15998858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmityRavenclawElf/pseuds/AmityRavenclawElf
Summary: You wake up in an unfamiliar room. Well, more accurately, you wake up in a room that looks like yours but isn’t, and that might be more terrifying.But there is a man in the room. He tells you you are ill. And he seems kind...





	1. Chapter 1

You wake up in an unfamiliar room.

Well, more accurately, you wake up in a room that looks like yours but isn’t, and you can tell that it isn’t from the windows and door. This is probably more terrifying than waking up in a room that is completely unfamiliar, because this means that someone has deliberately tried to _recreate_ your room somewhere else and placed you in it. (How long must that have taken? It isn’t like there’s such a thing as _magic_.)

And then there’s the fact that you can’t seem to sit up.

“It’s alright,” says a quiet, hesitant voice, and you turn to see a pale man with freckles and brown hair, sitting so unobtrusively that you didn’t even notice him there at first. “You’re just ill. Here...”

He is holding a bowl of soup, and he offers you a spoonful. For some bizarre reason, you can’t seem to refuse; you open up to receive the soup. Warm. It’s warm. You can’t focus on any flavor, but you know that it is warm, and it makes your skin and chest feel warm. It's fine. It's nice. Everything is fine.

The unfamiliar man places a hand on your clammy cheek and slowly (affectionately?) runs his thumb back and forth in a little arc under your eye. You can’t seem to mind it; he’s so gentle, and you feel so peculiar, and his demeanor is nearly that of a doctor.

“Don’t worry at all,” the man says, even more quietly than before. “I will take such good care of you.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Where am I?” you ask once the soup is gone. (He fed you until the spoon could not be filled anymore; he scraped the sides of the bowl for every drop. And each time you reached to feed yourself, with your hand trembling from startlingly unexpected weakness, he gently took your wrist and set your hand down, palm-up, on the pillow beside your head, whispering _No, no, darling, let me take care of that_.)

He napkins your mouth of stray soup as he, quietly as ever, answers, “In honesty, I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you.”

His face is close. Your eyes focus deliriously on his freckles. He didn’t answer your question, and you know that something has to be wrong, and you remember being panicked mere moments ago, but you can’t feel afraid. Maybe it’s the warm soup, or his exceptionally non-threatening demeanor, but you feel sure that you aren’t in danger. Deliriously sure.

“My name is Newt,” he says, drawing back as he finishes dabbing at your face. Your eyes have trouble identifying the individual freckles, now, so you move on to _his_ eyes. They seem focused on you, but not meeting your gaze.

“Why am I here?”

“Because you’re ill,” he answers, so patiently; he doesn’t say ‘as I told you’, or ‘like I said’; he doesn’t mind repeating himself.

“This room looks like mine.”

He smiles slightly. “Does that make you more comfortable?”

_No._ “I don’t know.” You sniff, and immediately he is handing you a tissue that you don’t really think he was holding before. “Did _you_ bring me here?”

He makes you blow your nose (He supports your head with his hand, then sets you back down on the pillow when you’re finished.) before he will answer. “Yes, I did. I didn’t think the Muggle healers could care for you as well as I can.”

“The what?”

“Th-th-the doctors, I mean.” He smiled again, this time sort of tightly: a flicker of a smile.

Something tapped against the window. You turned your head in time to see what looked like (but surely couldn’t have been?) a giant bird face, moving past. Then a giant wing blocked the window, plunging the whole room into purple-tinted darkness.

Newt rises to his feet. “So sorry; just a moment.”

He leaves the room, rather swiftly. You try to sit up, since he isn’t here to shush and croon and hold his hands on your shoulders, but your arms feel like they are made of gelatin, and soon you are collapsing back, lightheaded from the strain. You must be more ill than you thought.

The purple feathers leave the window, and Newt returns, apologizing as if he is a guard who abandoned his post. He stutters more when he apologizes.

“Where were we?” he murmurs. “Oh! Yes. Your congestion.” And he sits down, not in his chair, but on the edge of the bed, right beside you. “Pardon me. Sorry.” He puts on a stethoscope, which he _certainly_ wasn’t holding a moment ago, and presses the end of it to your chest. His hand lightly, probably accidentally, grazes your softness as you breathe. You breathe.

“I can leave when I get better, though, right?” you whisper.

His eyes are closed as he listens to the sounds inside you, listens like they are music. It is a moment, a number of moments, before he breezily answers, “When you get better…Yes…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment! Love you guys! Eat vegetables!


	3. Chapter 3

You fall asleep, after Newt eventually (and with clear reluctance) leaves the room, and when you wake up, it is with a distinct feeling of clarity. It is as if there was a cloying haze over your mind when last you were awake and now the fog has lifted and you are able to pursue thoughts more fully.

Of course, with this clarity comes the degree of panic that was missing before. It seems to be true that you are ill, but you were not _this_ ill before awakening in Newt's grasp. Your worst symptoms before were a stuffy nose, slight sensitivity to touch, maybe a cough; now you're physically weak, and your mind has apparently lost its grip on normalcy enough that it has taken you this long to grasp how bizarre and terrifying your circumstances are. And even if you _were_ sick enough to require another person's care before now, that person would optimally be a doctor or nurse in a hospital, not a strange man with odd herbal concoctions in an eerie recreation of your bedroom.

How and why did he recreate your bedroom?! Has he been...watching you? He must have been, to know the moment you catch a cold and to have such thorough knowledge of your living space.

This is weird. This is wrong. You shouldn't be here.

You hurl yourself from the bed and find your legs too wobbly to stand unsupported; you collapse to the floor on the first try. Still, you persevere; the adrenaline is coursing through you, now. You grasp the bedpost and pull yourself to a standing position. You are terribly lightheaded, but you are out of bed.

_"Come on,"_ you whisper to yourself. _"You've got this, come on."_ Transitioning your grip from the bedpost to the bed's frame, you shuffle closer to the door, step by step. The room isn't large, but it takes you a whole sixty seconds before you're resting your weight against the flat, rough surface of the exit.

You set your hand on the doorknob, and you turn it, and you can't quite suppress the whimper that escapes your lips when you find that the door is locked. You rattle the doorknob hard, shaking the door as if hoping that you can trick the door into no longer being locked. He's locked you in. You're locked in. And you already know that you can't break the window; there's nothing hard enough that you can use, and you wouldn't have the strength anyway, given that you're already starting to fall to your knees here. You aren't even strong enough to scream. So, you keep desperately shaking the door...until something brushes against it from the outside. Something large and, though you might be basing your observations on what you _think_ you saw earlier, something that sounds like a lot of feathers.

What is outside this room? Are you in some sort of...zoo? Oh goodness, you hope not; the zoo is so distant from anyone who could possibly hear you.

As your strength continues to dwindle, you opt to curl up on the floor of your own accord rather than wait for gravity to force it on you. You can't make it back to the bed, can't pretend you didn't try to escape. You'll just have to wait for Newt to return. Maybe you can crawl out when he opens the door.

Clinging to that hope, you drift off again.

...

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry!"

You open your eyes, and Newt's face is very close to yours as he scoops you, supine, into his arms.

"I'm sorry, I was gone for so long; you must have been afraid." He sets you on the bed as if you are a treasured china doll who has fallen off of its shelf, and he looks you over in the same way. Gently, very gently, he runs his thumbs over the spaces below your eyes. "You've been out of bed. You look exhausted, poor thing; why did you put yourself under such strain? Surely it would have been easier to just stay in bed until I came back, hmm?" He gave you a half-smile that was almost like friendly teasing, but soft.

"I'm not supposed to be here," you tell him weakly. "Please take me home. Please."

"Dear, you don't understand; I can take care of you," Newt breathed.

"I don't want you to take care of me," you say clearly.

Newt sighs, his smile turning sad in a slightly perturbing way. "Nevertheless, you're too precious a creature to be left to the care of..." (He paused, then delicately finished,) "... _Muggles."_

You shake your head disturbedly. "I don't understand what you're saying. I don't understand. I just need to go home, okay, Newt?"

"I know that you think that," Newt says loftily. "You'll just have to trust me."

"I don't _know_ you," you protest.

"You did," Newt says, so flatly that it must have been impulsive. The pinkness that floods to his face shortly after adds credence to that theory. "We've met for the first time on seven different occasions, but the longest you've ever known me has been fifteen minutes. I always ended up obliviating you at a point because I...get a bit nervous, I suppose." He winces. "But then I saw that you were ill..."

"I caught a _cold,"_ you insist.

"...and that gave me the courage to act on my...feelings...for you." He has become _very_ red, now. "One thing I know that I can do is care for something...some _one_...who needs care." He leans closer, cups your face with his hand, and breathes into your ear: "I can take _such_ good care of you, darling; please don't ask to leave, don't ask to leave me anymore."

"Stop that," you plead, wishing you had the arm strength to push him away. "I want to go."

"But you don't know...So m-many things kill Muggles, things that wizards know how to heal," he insists, his voice shaking. "You just don't understand, that's all. And you haven't taken your potion in..." Then he takes out a well-carved stick, and he gives it a smart flick, and suddenly...

No, you're hallucinating. You're ill and hallucinating; that's it. But...it _looks_ like...objects are soaring around the room.

Herbs and vials of fluids fly out of Newt's bag and start emptying themselves into your soup bowl, combining into another soup that looks and smells exactly like the first one. Curtains ring across their rod, veiling the window and making the room feel infinitely more contained. The bedcovers jerk to cover you, and Newt tucks them around your body with gentle-as-ever hands and a tender expression.

He gives the stick (...the...wand? Maybe?) a sharp up-and-down motion, and steam starts to issue from the soup.

"Nice and warm for you." He hums contentedly, then eases a spoonful of the soup up to his lips to blow it before lowering it to your face. "Here, open..."

You don't let the spoon in. You turn away with a wary glare.

Newt sighs. "Please don't be difficult. You haven't eaten anything since yesterday night; open for me."

You tighten your lips.

Another sigh, and Newt sets the spoon back down in the bowl in order to lift his wand again. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, and you only have time to think that he might not be entirely speaking to you before he flicks his wand and whispers _"Imperio"_ and your mind glazes over.

Suddenly, no thought appeals to you more than that of finishing your soup.

"Good, very good," Newt breathes as he feeds you. His smile broadens when the spoon starts to scrape the bottom of the bowl. "So good."

You finish the soup, and it makes you feel warm again. You melt against him while he combs the tangles out of your hair. You remember, vaguely, that you were very worried before, but you don't mind the change; this is nice. It's nice that he massages your scalp and holds you close to him.

"Are you going to fall asleep again?" he asks quietly.

"Yes," you answer, even though you know that you've been sleeping a lot recently.

"Alright." You know that he is smiling even though your eyes are closed. "After you wake up, you can have a bath; how does that sound?"

You don't quite like the idea, but agreeing seems to be the best way to get to sleep quickly, so you answer, "Mm-hmm."

Newt kisses your temple, and the comb continues to make its soothing rounds. You fall asleep once again, pressed against his chest.


	4. Chapter 4

By your best estimation, it has been several days in Newt's care. Maybe two weeks, maybe a bit more or less.

Much of the time, things have stayed the same; soups, rest, baths, affection, and periods varying in duration from half-days to, rarely, up to a whole day in which Newt is absent (after which he always enters full of apologies and care).

You don't have a cold anymore, and bringing that up to him at most earns you a distracted "Hm?" as he grooms you, and sometimes no response at all. So you've stopped bringing it up.

From how often you've heard his voice outside your door, you've gathered that you aren't the only thing he cares for here: there are animals, although you can't fathom what kind, from the sounds and glances (sometimes through the window, sometimes even on Newt when he enters). Rationally, you're sure that they must just be foreign or rare or both (despite all the thing you've seen, you'd rather keep at least one hand on what you understand to be reality), but they _seem_ otherworldly.

When you have the stamina for it (meaning "when you haven't had his soup in a while"), you listen at the door as he cares for them. He treats them about the same way he treats you: caring, gentle, authoritative. You feel resentment at the thought of being essentially a _pet_ , although the resentment can only last for as long as you have enough presence of mind to support it (meaning "when you haven't had his soup in a while").

On one such night, after an unprecedented day-and-a-half of Newt's absence, you manage to make an exit of the window...by standing on the bed and kicking it, resulting in cuts up your leg, which you probably should have expected. Maybe you weren't completely awake. Well, you are _now_. Stinging and especially cautious, you climb out into the grass, where some large, winged creature is curled up asleep not far off. It's the same creature you've glimpsed through the window a few times. It's hard to make out details in the dark, except for a large, clawed foot and a gigantic wing over its body. You give it a wide berth.

The reality descends on you, with the cool night air, that you've managed to escape your room. And yet, in the wide open space, you have no idea of where to go.

Limping horribly, you choose a direction where there are lights (maybe a city?) and strike out.

As you go, you can't help thinking about the unfavorable ratio of pain to progress that you are dealing with; every step hurts, and how long will it take you to get anywhere of note? You know it has to be now, while you're free, while you're lucid, while you can even want freedom over comfort.

And then you step on a tail.

You know it is a tail, because it is yanked out from under your foot as soon as you put weight on it, and you fall backward to the ground as a great furry thing rises to see what has touched it.

You hold your breath as the creature, twice your size at least, looms over you. Sniffs you. Sniffs your bleeding leg. Bares its sharp teeth and moves its head steadily closer to the wounded meat, causing you to crawl backward in terror at the sensation of hot breath against your unprotected skin.

The creature pursues you, and you rise to your feet and break into a limping sprint. From the vibration of the ground beneath you, you can tell that the creature is following you. Your fear enables you to forget the pain in your leg; you run faster.

It will overtake you. It's huge, and strong-limbed. It will catch you.

Prioritizing the eminent threat over your freedom, you scream, but you can just _feel_ that your screams are swallowed up by the night, unheard.

When the pursuing footfalls suddenly stop, you twist your torso to see behind you as you continue to run. The creature is standing still, pawing at what you can only call an invisible wall keeping it back, though nothing of the sort seemed to exist for you. Not glass, then, but...something else. You will not call it magic, but it resembles magic in quality. And it keeps the creature back, like a wall. _Like the rope keeping the giant bird thing in place,_ you can't help thinking. _Like my locked room. Everything stays in its own general area._

You don't dare slow down even now; you only turn to face forward again...

...just in time to drop into a previously-unseen expanse of water.

The shock of it causes you to swallow some, before you work your arms to resurface and cough it up.

Fresh...and clean...and...Where are you, geographically, that the water is like this?

Where has he taken you?

How far would you have to go, in this state, to be out of his reach?

You try to stroke your way to the grass, but the water's ever-so-slight current tries to dissuade you from reaching the land.

And then.

Then there's.

A tentacle around your ankle.

And...

You swallow water again as suddenly the tentacle gripping your ankle yanks hard, submerging you completely. You choke and struggle, but you might as well be tied to a cement block. The tentacle draws you deeper, and your panic at being unable to breathe mixes with a deeper dread at what sort of creature you'll discover at the other end of the appendage. You flail with every limb, kick and scratch as well as you can while underwater. You have to get away, you have to get away, you have to get away, you have to get away...

It's dark, and you are dripping wet, and Newt is carrying you. You know that it is him, even though you can only feel his chest and hands.

It doesn't feel like you've been unconscious; more as if you missed the part where you were rescued. Like when you were a child in school and you allowed your mind to wander and missed an important explanation from the teacher. But you're too tired to be confused; your body is so exhausted, it aches- especially your chest, arms, and legs, which struggled the most in the past hour.

Your mind is sluggish, as well. It takes you almost a minute to notice that he is humming to himself, or maybe to you. There was water in your ears before, probably, because the humming isn't hard to miss, as closely as you are being held.

You shift a little in his grasp and make a pained sound.

"Don't worry," he says gently. "We're almost to your room. It's my fault for not charming the window. Leaving a way out like that...I made you unsafe. And I was gone so long...I promise it wasn't intentional." (It shouldn't be so comforting, hearing him apologize for endangering you, but it is. It feels absurdly validating.) "Don't worry," he concludes. "You won't get out again."

And that will distress you later, but now you are tired and cold and sore.

You hear a scraping sound, like a giant snake slithering towards you, and you tense up, but Newt only says, "Go back to your nest, Fortunado; it's not dinnertime," and the sound retreats. How this zoo of terrifying monsters has been transformed into a safe place by Newt's very presence, you can only imagine.

Shortly, he is setting you down on your bed again, and waving his wand so that the door shuts and locks and the shattered window mends itself and takes on a more translucent quality for half a second that makes you think that he has used his...magic...stuff, to reinforce the glass.

"Now, let me see that leg."

You hate that he has abducted you here, hate that you are his pet, but no part of you distrusts him with your injury. And a childish part of you enjoys how he tuts sympathetically over your cuts. His fingers roam lightly, assessing _something_ probably. You watch his face as he examines you, and you're unsure what to make of his contented expression, his slight smile as if the sight of your condition has put him utterly at peace. Perhaps that is a sign that your injury is minor.

"Well, the glass was summoned out of it when I repaired the window," he says after a while. "The best thing now is to just...clean it. To keep away infection."

You want to ask why he can't heal it with magic, but you haven't really acknowledged the magic to him yet and you're sort of scared to. Instead, you ask, "Why were you gone?", in a small, hoarse voice.

Newt turns his face to you, the inner ends of his eyebrows upturned. "My suitcase was stolen. Er, confiscated, actually. I had to get it back first."

"Your suitcase?" you repeat, and though you still speak extremely quietly, something in your tone must convey your incredulity that a lost suitcase has taken precedence over feeding you for the past thirty-six hours, because Newt qualifies:

"Yes, sorry; you're _in_ my suitcase." He flicks his wand to send a small bottle of clear fluid to his hand. "That's why I...couldn't get to you." He drizzles the fluid over the tears in your leg as if this bizarre statement meant nothing to him.

"I'm in...? Pardon?" is all you can say.

"You don't have to try to understand," he assures you gently. "I know magic isn't a part of your life. I don't understand everything Muggles talk about either: telephones and things."

If anything, this bothers you more, but he continues:

"If anything, it's better that you don't understand; it might dissuade you from trying to leave again." He says it so straightforwardly, but with no hint of a grudge over your transgression. That should be a good thing, his lack of anger and his honesty, but for some reason you're given the impression that he is being honest with you for the same reason that one might be honest with a cat or other small animal: one doesn't expect a pet to really understand what it is being told, or to have the power to act on what it does understand.

"Newt, I'm not sick anymore," you try again, even though it has been pointless before. "Wasn't that the reason you brought me here?"

"Yes," he says softly, which is more of a concession than you've ever gotten from him before, so you earnestly press:

"If I'm not sick, isn't it time to let me go?"

"Not with your leg in this state," he answers just as softly, and again he flutters his fingers over the lacerations.

With a slightly sickened feeling, you suddenly understand the reason behind the way he smiled when he examined your injury. "You're just going to keep me here," you state weakly. "You're always going to find something wrong, and you're going to keep me here."

"I...like to take care of things," he tells you delicately. His hand roams the details of your face as gently as if there were injuries there, as well: across your lips, over your nose, under your eyes, along your cheeks... "I find beautiful creatures, creatures that I know other people wouldn't try to understand, and I care for them."

"I don't want to be cared for. I told you, I don't want to be cared for."

"Because you don't understand, and that's alright; you don't have to. Things are...more difficult, for Muggles."

That word again. As if you are the oddity, the thing about which to be curious.

Newt procures a soft rag and starts to dab at the slices in your flesh, then massage the bottle-fluid into them. He coos pityingly when you wince; it is almost grating, how good he is at validating your pain. The animals must love it.

You hiss when he gets to an especially tender cut.

"I know, I know it hurts," he murmurs sadly, and you believe him. "You're doing so well. I'm so proud of you. Being strong for me, my good little Muggle. So brave. Just a few more..."

He's too good at this. Or you're too susceptible. Almost artfully, he has made you feel hopeless enough about escaping and comfortable enough with his soft temperament that you could be satisfied here, under his affectionate ministrations. You could.

"I'm just glad I charmed the suitcase itself." He is muttering mostly to himself, now. "If they'd gotten inside...gotten to you..."

You almost shiver at his foreboding tone, but the fact that he used the word "confiscated" earlier makes you wonder if perhaps the people who had the "suitcase" (bizarre as _that_ is to think about) were in a position of authority to rescue you. Have you unknowingly been that close to being saved for the past day-and-a-half? Only for the chance to be lost...But then, maybe they were not rescuers, at all. Maybe someone sinister has been only a magic spell away...

Something bright green catches your eye: something moving around in the collar of Newt's waistcoat. A second later, something like an animated twig crawls out of the coat and onto the bed. It has a little face. What _is_ that thing?

Newt ignores it, if he's aware of it moving at all. Instead noticing that the fluid on your leg has been completely absorbed into your flesh, he drizzles another dose onto you and then stands up. "We'll let that soak for two minutes. In the meantime, there's a certain adolescent kraken who needs to be told she's on punishment for not playing nicely." He runs his hand along the side of your face one last time and kisses your head. He has kissed you before, quick pecks on the cheek or nose or even lips (again, the way one would a cat), but something about the slow way he places this one on the top of your head feels like a deliberate mark of ownership. "I promise I'll be right back."

You stay very still. When he leaves, with a flourish of his wand to shut and lock the door behind him, the twig creature remains on the bed. It regards you, quirking its head to the side as if it, too, finds you something of an oddity. It raises one of its appendages (its arm, you suppose) and extends it to you.

Warily, you offer your forefinger, and you shake hands with the twig.


	5. Chapter 5

Apparently, the kraken's tentacles were coated in some sort of toxin. That is the reason Newt gives, at least, for your waking up the next morning in such a weakened state despite your healed leg. It isn't the tiredness that his soup always brings about, but rather a bizarre immobility as though your limbs have come to weigh a ton overnight. You can barely even open your mouth to drink the water he brings you.

"It'll pass," he says softly. "You'll just have to wait it out, I'm afraid."

"There's no cure?" you manage to ask before he tenderly eases your jaw closed.

"No," he answers, and you physically can't ask any more questions.

You don't believe him.

And you don't believe that his murmurs of "Poor thing", as he maneuvers you around like a sentient doll, are genuine. You can't believe you miss being a pet, but at least pets can move around in their cage; being a doll and letting him dote on you while you are powerless is utter misery.

Nonetheless, you are bedridden for another two days. By the end of the first day, you have regained the strength to turn your head, and Newt whispers, "See? Better already," in the (entirely dissonant) tone of one experiencing a tragic loss. Halfway through the second day, you manage to lift your arm to bring the water to your own lips (motivated by the humiliation you've felt every time he leaned in to dab away a drizzle of water from the corner of your mouth; he always does it so _slowly_ ), and Newt says nothing to acknowledge this. In fact, he falls into a stony silence, almost as though angered, though it could be your imagination.

The bowtruckle (for you've learned from Newt that _that_ is what the twig creature is called: a bowtruckle, Pickett by name) keeps you company when Newt is absent. It doesn't speak, just crawls on you mostly, but you are so starved of companionship outside of the man who kidnapped you that you have come to regard the strange animal as a friend.

You can't tell how intelligent it is; it seems to obey Newt's calm commands ("No no, down from there."), and Newt acts as though he understands the creature, as though it speaks to him, but asking it for help in escaping has not worked. But then, Pickett is likely allied with Newt, isn't it? It probably _chooses_ not to help you.

Maybe it stays with you through the night because it is watching you for him.

The morning of the third day, you can sit up, and Newt looks put out for only a second before he is donning a smile and saying, "Well, I see my Muggle is close to a full recovery. You just needed a little rest, didn't you?" Soon after, he's spoon-feeding you a porridge of some kind, for breakfast. "Healthy as a dragon."

"Are there dragons, too?" you ask quietly.

He rewards your interest with a soft smile, his eyes dancing. "Oh, yes. Dragons, kelpies, grindylows, all sorts of things."

You stare at his face. He looks so sweet, so warm. It's almost disturbing, how his disposition fails to match his actions. Maybe this behavior, abducting people, is normal for his kind. For "wizards". It seems impossible that he would knowingly, deliberately do something so wrong. "Why haven't we seen them?"

"Because we make sure they stay hidden," he answered, "and because Muggles don't always understand what you're looking at. Your minds can't quite handle things that don't conform to the reality you've accepted."

"My mind is fine," you say, incensed by his condescension. "It's not my fault I can't do magic."

"Of course it isn't," he says compassionately. His hand goes to soothe you; he has learned which types of touches make your body instinctively relax. Again, too good at this.

"Tell me about the creatures?" you ask, because you've learned to pursue any line of conversation that he doesn't breezily ignore (the way he ignores any talk of going home or not feeling ill), and because you want to, for a moment, be unaware of just how thoroughly he is controlling you, and because you are curious about what sorts of things secretly inhabit this world.

He tells you about merpeople first, and your eyes glaze over with awe. Mermaids, in a lake, by a magical school. Then he tells you about nifflers, and all you want to do is have one, and you can see him loosening up before your eyes, can see that Newt's veritable waterfall of "magizoological" knowledge is starting to fall free, and he becomes less careful about explaining his words, so much so that after a point you no longer have any idea what he's saying. This is actually for the better, because it enables you to separate from the situation a little and think about what is happening. This is the least inhibited you've seen him; it could be a good time to try to get some small amount of freedom out of him. You're afraid of pushing your luck, worried that he'll catch on to your intentions and shut down completely, but would it be worse to have this opportunity and not use it?

While you're working yourself up to interject, Newt suddenly falls silent. He is staring at you, at your attentive face, his pupils dilating noticeably, and you're suddenly aware that Pickett has climbed onto your shoulder and is playing with your hair. You break eye contact with Newt (gladly, as he is making you uncomfortable) to glance in the creature's direction, and when you look back, Newt is still staring. He licks his lips and hoarsely says, "He likes you."

Oh, good grief. 

The wholesome joy in his eyes that built when he was talking about the animals has yielded to something entirely too intimate.

"Can we take a walk?" you ask, impulsively. "S-so you can show them to me?"

For several seconds, his expression is so still that you wonder if he has been frozen by magic. It turns out that he was just thinking quickly; soon enough, he blinks and says, "Sure. Sure, that should be...should be fine." And he offers you his arm.

...

You find it difficult to believe that you could possibly be inside a suitcase. How could it be that magic is powerful enough to put whole fields ( _plural_ ) inside a movable container? And not just fields; there are varying climates and elevations and indoor bits, too, besides your room. Cabins, almost.

Newt wears a small smile, because every time anything moved in the grass, you startle into his side. To be fair, the things in the grass are pretty terrifying.

You accelerate your foot-speed just slightly, to distance yourself from his pleased expression. He retaliates by wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. "Careful," he says into your neck. "Watch where you step. Try to stay close. Dangerous creatures here, remember? We don't want my sweet Muggle getting hurt."

 _But you do, though_ , you think, wriggling a bit while he continues to murmur into the skin of your neck ("So fragile...You can't protect yourself, can't heal yourself...Stay close to me...I've got you..."), and the obvious occurs to you: He does. He would love nothing more than for some misfortune to befall you here, so that you will depend on him again. There is no doubt in your mind that his ideal end for this outing would be carrying you, half chewed to death, back to your little... _enclosure_ , probably bridal style. It occurs to you that, though he seems to exert almost flawless control over these creatures, that does not mean that you won't be hurt in his presence. It likely means the opposite; he is extremely unsafe company, and (while his eerie fixation on you never fails to disconcert) his soft manner of speaking makes it a bit too easy to forget that.

You have to get away. Now. It's that or stay in his break-and-mend cycle until he tires of you, if he ever even does. _Oh, what if he never does?_

His arms release your waist, but one curls around your shoulders casually. If you duck down very quickly, he will probably be too surprised to grab you, but who's to say he wouldn't bring you back with magic?

"Oh, look," he says, so airily, as he shows you a creature that has landed on his forearm: like Pickett, it is almost humanish in dimensions, but tiny and warped and strange. It had multiple sets of dragonfly wings, in alarmingly bright colors. You knew enough about animals (non-magical, but still) to be wary of such ostentatious pigmentation, but Newt's hand on your shoulder draws you nearer to it. "That's a geyser doxy. It's rare to see them above-ground, but I'm raising a nest whose habitat was destroyed. She's beautiful, isn't she?"

"Y-yes," you say, trying to subtly ease back from the creature but only encountering a more insistent grip.

"Careful, though. They bite."

Of course they do.

The doxy, at this moment, is exploring the cuff of Newt's pushed-up shirt sleeve. It scratches at the white fabric as though offended by it and manages to tear away thin strips with its tiny claws.

"Does she have venom?" you ask, still trying ineffectually to back away.

"Oh yes; believe me, their bites are very painful," Newt chuckles, then his tone turns grim. "Doxy venom is actually used in many potions, as it happens. I'm not fond of that practice; they kill the doxies to get it. They don't have to do that."

"That's awful." You barely put any thought or effort into selling your sympathy for the venomous fairy thing (which you are positive is _not_ in more eminent danger than you are), but still Newt kisses the side of your head as earnestly as though you've just delivered a beautiful speech at his loved one's funeral.

"I knew you'd understand," he breathes. "Sometimes I think Muggles might have more...emotional intelligence than wizards." He twitches his forearm slightly, and the doxy takes its cue and flies away.

You relax, but not completely; Newt resumes leading you through the fields. He pulls you slightly closer, and you feel something...his wand. In his pocket.

"If you look over there, that's actually-"

You grab the wand. At this point, you have to just commit to something. Feeling it lose contact with Newt is oddly like feeling a living thing die in your hands. Instinctively, you know that what for him is a tool and a weapon is for you at most a stick. Still, while it's with you, it isn't with him.

While Newt is still reacting to your thievery, you break into a sprint.

...

You can just feel that you aren't going to make it.

You make for the cabins instead of the fields; if this comes down to sustained, uninterrupted running, you will not win. You run across a wooden deck, duck into a room, and lock the door behind you.

Okay.

So, this is not ideal.

At a glance, this room has no exit other than the door from which you entered. Fortunately, Newt does not seem to have reached you, but eventually you will have to go _somewhere_ from here.

Then you notice the thin rope hanging from the ceiling, and you look up to find what looks to be the entrance to an attic. You can't imagine how large the attic can be, as this structure appeared to be single-story from the outside, but it's better than nothing, so you try to open the door.

Why is the rope so well-knotted?

Magic. Obviously.

With much rawness on the part of your fingertips, you manage to untie the rope, and the door drops open with wooden stair-steps unfolding downward just as a light knocking starts at the locked door. "Open up please," Newt says tiredly.

His complete lack of urgency worries you, but you step up onto the step-ladder regardless, producing a loud creak that Newt surely hears.

Newt sighs from outside the door. "You aren't going to make it out. Please just settle down and behave."

The order angers you, but at the moment you are more focused on something a bit more pressing. Because Newt wasn't the only one who heard the creak of your foot on the step-ladder; a little head twitched to your right, and suddenly you notice that there are about a dozen small creatures scattered about the room, all over, with pointed ears and big black eyes and dull blue flesh (no wonder you didn't notice them when you were glancing around for exits) and tightly-strung postures, as if all of them are ready to leap at you at any moment. They are watching you. You, on the ladder. On only the first step.

And what exactly are you supposed to do? It isn't as though you can give up now. Newt can't do anything to you without his wand, and these things...You try to build confidence, telling yourself that creatures as small as they are surely can't do much damage. And it isn't too far a climb.

You take your next two steps up the ladder quickly (and loudly), and one creature pounces, ruining your foot's purchase and causing you to fall all the way to the floor, painfully bumping various parts of your body along the way. Newt's wand falls out of your hand and rolls across the floor. You grab the offending creature, which has now latched onto your ankle, and throw it, but you have to duck your head next because another creature has gone for your face; it ends up tangled in your hair, and it commences _tugging_ with gleeful abandon.

These things are monsters, and he absolutely left them here deliberately.

More of them seem to catch on that your hair is fun to play with, as you end up with at least four of them on your shoulders and head, but you keep your resolve and go for the step ladder again. This time, when the remaining creatures try to take out your feet, you are ready; you make it up to nearly the top before any of them go for your hands. You suffer a few scratches but manage to pull yourself up further.

Your head and shoulders surface in a room that doesn't feel like an attic. You can't put your finger on it, but something seems distinctly exciting about this new space, as though crossing fully into it will change everything.

You aren't given time to deliberate further; below you, there is a muffled sound as though Newt has whistled, and then the locked door can be heard opening (Has he really trained those beasts to open doors for him on whistle-command?), and at nearly the same time, the creatures that are still playing in your hair begin to rise. Begin to fly.

You take one more step up the ladder, to avoid Newt's quick approach, and then the rest of the steps are made obsolete; rather than just leaving you behind, as you assumed they would, the creatures are lifting you off of your feet by your hair, and you are screaming now, screaming, because it _hurts_ , it hurts worse than you could have imagined, but you rise up into the room proper, rise up nearly to the ceiling, before a pair of hands close around your ankles and you are pulled into Newt's arms.

He is sitting on the floor of the attic-that-isn't-an-attic, and he is holding you, and there are tears streaming down your face.

"Th-they're Cornish pixies," he explains, rambles. "Had them to guard the door. If I'd had my wand, it would have been easier..." He cuts off when you cry harder, but you're not really reacting to his words; you're reacting to the suitcase you've just noticed sitting open in the middle of the floor. The suitcase that you must have _just_ climbed out of...that the "Cornish pixies" _pulled_ you out of. You were this close to free, and now you're in his lap, with his hands rubbing your arms whilst keeping a secure grip on them as well, with his warm cheek against your damp one, with his pixie creatures fluttering agitatedly all over the room (It looks like a bedroom. He keeps you in his bedroom, in his suitcase.), his his his, everything his.

You want to vomit, but that would just delight him too much.

"Please, I want to go home," you sob pathetically. "Please just take me home. Please, Newt."

He shushes you in a way that is meant to soothe (like every thing he does is meant to soothe), but you keep saying "please" because if you stop it feels like you'll have given up, and you can't admit that you came this close only to let him take you back to the room that looks like yours but isn't.

You can't.

His hand goes under your chin and tilts your head up to look at him. You can't even properly see his face through the tears. His thumb catches both your lips, finally silencing you, and your breath goes shaky.

"See, you've gone and tired yourself," he breathes. "Poor thing. Shhh. I know, I know..."

Your hand clutches the front of his vest, wrinkles it. Almost on sheer impulse, you try to bite his thumb.

He pulls his hand away expertly and looses a breathy laugh. "You aren't the first creature to try to take my thumb off, darling, and you won't be the last."

"I want to leave," you say. "I hate it in there, Newt. I hate it."

Once again, Newt's expression sobers. "I think I made your habitat a bit too simple. I apologize; I should have taken into account that humans need a bit more variety. I'll make it better, I promise."

"I do not want to go back in," you say clearly.

Newt hums, which normally precedes a brush-off, but something of your fit must have gotten through to him, because the next thing he says is, "How about, just for tonight, you can stay out here in my room. Just for tonight. Does that sound better?"

Weighed against the thought of going back in the suitcase, even the tiny concession seems to fill your lungs with new air. You hiccup. "It...It sounds better."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment! I do read them, and I love all of them (even if I sometimes forget to reply). 
> 
> Also, I have a yandere sideblog on tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/siswritespotterverseyanderes


	6. Chapter 6

You have never seen Newt in his pajamas before.

He looks smaller in them. That is, he looks narrower. Thinner.

You are sitting on his bed, curled up with your knees against your chest, occasionally casting nervous glances at the Cornish pixies that are still fluttering at the ceiling. He has assured that they "won't hurt you", but you can't become comfortable in their presence after they lifted you by your hair.

Newt must notice this, because as soon as he has his pajamas on, he whistles for the creatures to return to the suitcase, then closes and latches it.

A part of your mind (still sluggish from your emotional breakdown) perks up, remembering the wand that was on the floor inside the suitcase. Is it still there, or did he pick it up? You can't see it on his person. If he doesn't have it, perhaps your failed escape hasn't yet been wasted. But then, exactly how likely is it that you will be able to escape while he is sleeping? Newt has never demonstrated a willingness to fall asleep while you are still awake.

"Are you hungry at all?" Newt asks softly.

And blast it all, you _are_. Extremely. "Can I have something that isn't soup?" you ask.

Your meek tone of voice makes him smile. There is, he believes, a certain defensive hardness that people assume when they are exposed to a lot of other people- in public and such -, and seeing you gradually stripped of it makes isolating you from your world all the more worth it. You still make your attempts to escape, like nearly all of his creatures do, but, also like them, you have come to trust him enough to put away your hardness, to ask him honestly for what you need, to eat without hesitation from his hand, to wet his clothes with your tears. You are _his_ Muggle, and you are becoming accustomed to that, and it is a beautiful process. It is practically all he knows. "Of course, darling. What would you like?"

You name a food, and you try not to appear outwardly disappointed when he takes out his wand (apparently not left behind) to conjure it.

You realize just how hungry you are as the warm dish appears on the bed in front of you. "Did you make that out of nothing?" you can't help asking.

"No, that would be impossible under Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration," Newt says. "I just summoned it from elsewhere."

The meal looks and tastes exactly the way it does at your favorite restaurant; you have an idea of where Newt summoned it from, and the fact that he knows the place perturbs you. Sure, he admitted to following you before this whole kidnapping ordeal, but for how long? You haven't been to the restaurant in months, maybe even a year.

Newt is watching you eat.

You avoid looking at him.

"Is it good?" he asks, sitting lightly down on the bed rather close to you and gently touching your hair.

 _I'm not a cat. Stop stroking me._ "Yes. Thank you." You purse your lips just a little when his caressing of your hair becomes heavier, as though in reward for your politeness.

"I can make sure there's lots of it in your new habitat. And there can be roads, so you can take walks. Different houses, in case you get bored of your room. Even buildings, if you really want to be able to explore. That sounds better, doesn't it?" Misguided though he is, he at least asks it like a real question to which your answer matters, not a condescending prompt expecting an affirmative.

"Better," you say, managing to keep your tone even. Captivity has got your emotions in absolute misbalance. "But I will still be trapped and alone, Newt. Humans aren't meant to be alone or in cages."

"You won't be alone, and it won't be a cage. I'll be with you-"

"You'll _visit_ my _cage,"_ you emphasize.

"We'll try the changes. If you're still unhappy, we'll make more changes. That's all we can do." He waves his wand to disappear your fork and emptied plate. "It's going to be a lot better." He stows his wand away again and says, positively dulcet, "Especially if you choose to stop pining after the outside. Nostalgia causes you to misremember it as some...paradise, where you were free, and social. You forget how alone you were, even there. How hard you worked."

The way he intones it, you can't help but to remember the very worst days, the most miserable moments, the stressed times, the lonely times...So it seems he isn't only good at reaching you on a base, animal level, but also on a human level; this soft-spoken man has very intuitive trapping skills, that they can adapt to manipulate you on a different tier every time. You're only glad that you're conscious of it. If you weren't, he would probably have you as wrapped around his finger as he has the doxies and the bowtruckles.

"You need to give yourself permission to be happy here," Newt said gently. "You will be, as soon as you allow it." 

He brushes his lips over your forehead, then goes to turn down the bed. When the covers are folded back, he leads you to settle down on one of the pillows. You feel numb as he settles down, facing you, on the other one. He pulls the covers up over both of you, and it feels somehow more intimate than it did when the covers were down.

Newt waves his wand a final time, and the lights in the room go out. Then a tiny light appears at the wand's tip, illuminating the immediate surroundings.

"I know how to take care of you," he whispers. "I took the time to learn; I know how to groom you, how to comfort you...Oh." A smile breaks across his face as an idea seems to occur to him. "I think you'll have a cinema as well. We could watch films. I'll have to learn...how those things work, for Muggles. That might take a while. But it's something to look forward to." He moves your hair out of your face with his wand tip. You close your eyes against the light. "There wasn't enough entertainment in your old habitat; that's my fault. I was hasty, so I gave you...less than you deserve. I meant to take more time developing it, but when you fell ill, I couldn't...couldn't wait. And once you were here, I couldn't focus on much of anything else. Just between you and me, I think the kraken might have been jealous."

He puts the light on his wand out with a whisper of _"Nox"_ , but you keep your eyes closed. Sleep is drawing mercifully near.

"Maybe I should obliviate you when the new habitat is made," Newt muses into the dark. "It would eliminate all the progress we've made, but a fresh start under ostensibly different circumstances might set a better pace."

You vaguely remember the word "obliviate" from one of his many confessions, but all of the wizard terms are mixing together and you're honestly too tired to be worrying, even if it is important. You keep your eyes closed and let him ramble on.

...

The sound of odd chirping wakes you.

All at once, you register both that you are not in your own bed and that you are not alone in whosever bed this is; the memories return a moment later, and you surmise that it is Newt who has his arms wrapped around you from behind (You are slightly smug that your sleeping self turned your back to him.) and is breathing restfully into your hair. The green thing jabbering shrilly from the foot of the bed, then, is Pickett.

The bowtruckle is not only chirping; it is jumping up and down, as well, and waving its armlike appendages. You can only interpret what must be alarm.

Newt stirs at the noise and sits up, listens to Pickett for half a second, and then shoots out of bed. "Someone's here," he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and going for his wand. "Sorry about this."

You sit up hastily when he points his wand at you, but you don't have time to protest before he has loosed the incantation:

_"Petrificus totalus."_

You fall supine once more, stiff and unable to move your limbs or really anything except your eyes to blink and your lungs to breathe (and even breathing is in such small motions that you are not filled, but merely sustained). Newt picks you up and slides you under the bed, whispering another apology as he does so, and a second later someone is knocking on the bedroom door and a voice is saying (through the door), "Mr. Scamander? It's Tina Goldstein from MACUSA. Open up."

He does; you hear him cross the room, followed by the door creaking open. You hear a pair of heeled shoes enter, presumably belonging to a person. Is she magical like him? Could she free you? You wish you were able to make a noise, to announce your presence, but all you can do is silently stare at the underside of the bed.

"A Cornish pixie was seen flying out of this residence," the woman named Tina Goldstein says, in a professional-sounding voice that tells you she is involved with magical law enforcement, to whatever extent that such a thing exists. Maybe she is the one who confiscated Newt's suitcase before. You wish even more that you could alert her to your predicament somehow. "It startled some No-Majs before being accidentally flattened by an automobile."

"Oh, that poor thing," Newt says, sounding genuinely bothered. "I wish they weren't so clever at getting under the door."

"We had to obliviate four different No-Majs," Tina says, the professional tone yielding to clear exasperation. (And there's that word again: obliviate. You start to have a sinking feeling about what it means.) "Is it too much to ask that you control your infestation?"

"Not too much to ask; maybe just too much to expect," Newt says lightly. His flippant attitude towards this magical law enforcer is not encouraging. Surely, if you were close to being saved, he would be more nervous, deferential.

"I hope you understand that you're already on thin ice with MACUSA, Newt," Tina says, and her use of his first name is the final nail in the coffin; they're friends. Or at least acquaintances. Even if she's not already in on his kidnapping of you (which, given that you are being hidden under the bed, she probably isn't), she won't be investigating him carefully enough to find you. Her presence here isn't a bust, but a warning. "They didn't find anything in your suitcase, but if you prove to be much more of a disruption-"

"My ship leaves in two days," Newt interrupts calmly. "I'll be out of MACUSA's hair shortly, and yours."

Now, more than ever, you wish you could scream. _Ship?_ You tell your body to scream, but you can only exhale slightly louder than before, and it isn't enough. 

"If that's all," Newt is saying, "then thank you for coming."

Tina is walking towards the door. No. _No! Please, hear me! Save me!_

"Be careful," Tina says, "or you won't be allowed back."

"I'll keep that in mind."

_Hear! Me! Please!_

Tina is across the threshold; you can hear her shoes on the hallway flooring, and you would _wail_ in anguish if it were physically possible. But suddenly. Another pair of shoes approaches, from much farther down the hallway, and another woman's voice (this one higher-pitched and almost dazed-sounding) is saying, "Teenie? Is something wrong in here?"

"No, of course not," Tina says, audibly confused.

"I thought I heard somethin'..." The other woman trails off. (Outside your field of vision, Newt is avoiding her gaze, and she is staring into space, listening.) There is silence for several seconds, and you try again to scream; even if all you can do is breathe louder, the silence might make that enough. But then the woman is dreamily saying, "My mistake. I must've misheard, is all."

_No. NO!_

"Come on, Teenie," the woman says- giggles, almost. "Remember, I wanted to go to the farmer's market?"

And then both women are gone, and Newt is standing in the middle of the room, breathing deeply. After a few seconds, he pulls you out from under the bed and returns to you the freedom to use your limbs.

"Everything is alright now," he whispers.

"What ship?" you demand weakly.

"I was so sure that Queenie would expose us," he continues, ignoring your question, "but we're alright. She must understand that I'm only doing what's best for you. Anyway, we'll be out of their reach soon."

"Newt...You _can't_ mean to take me to another continent."

"What choice do I have? A Cornish pixie, as clever as they are at getting in and out of trouble unscathed, couldn't survive a Muggle city over the course of one night. How am I meant to ever have you exposed to one again?"

You are aware that he has just compared your intelligence unfavorably to that of a pixie. "I've managed so far," you say.

"That doesn't mean we continue to gamble with your life, silly dear. The Muggle world is too rough and volatile for you, the wizarding world too cold and heartless. I will do what nobody else ever bothered to, and keep you safe from both. Keep you warm."

You feel a tickling sensation on the top of your thigh, and you startle for a second, thinking that it is Newt's fingertips, but instead it is only Pickett, climbing across your lap.

"Isn't it sort of arrogant to believe that you know what's best for me?" you ask carefully.

"Well, I think my record speaks in my favor," Newt replies, a slight cockiness manifesting in his smile now. "Every creature that I make mine flourishes in my care; the only fatalities have been ones that escaped and ones that I got to too late."

"But I am a _person."_

"You are..." Newt's smile softens again. "...darling. My darling Muggle."

"I'm a person, Newt, like you are."

"I never said you weren't."

"You haven't admitted I am."

"Is that what you want me to do?"

He is infuriating.

Newt watches you seethe, feeling...well, he isn't amused, not really. He doesn't think so little of you as to disvalue your anger. But it is important to get you to the point where you express these emotions outwardly- as important to let you be angry with him as it is to let you cry in his arms. This is how a place of familiarity is reached: by letting the hippogriff caw plaintively, letting the kraken splash with her tentacles, letting the sweet Muggle demand to be given the title "person" (and it _is_ cute how insistent you get over such an unimportant distinction). If you kept your emotions pent up, then there would only be more tension between the two of you, and he doesn't want that. Optimally, nothing would come between you.

To be fair, he hasn't fully decided whether or not he will obliviate you when the new habitat is finished, meaning these new levels of familiarity that he is unlocking could ultimately be for naught, but he is sure there's no harm in progressing in the meantime, just in case he changes his mind.

...

"What did you hear?" Tina demands, stopping in the middle of the walkway and earning disgruntled complaints from the No-Majs behind her. They have Apparated directly into the city (suitably out of Newt's earshot), into a dark alleyway, and now they are walking in the direction of home.

"Mm?" Queenie asks, turning to face her sister with a vague, innocent expression.

"You heard something, in Newt's room, but you didn't tell me what it was."

"Oh, don't be silly," Queenie says, waving her hand dismissively and trying to walk away, but Tina catches on to her wrist. "If it was important, I would tell you."

"No, if it was _unimportant_ you'd tell me. I saw that smirk you had on when we left."

"It's really none of our business; I just think it's cute, is all."

"What is?"

Queenie giggles again but refuses to answer. For the entire rest of the day, Tina cannot get a straightforward response out of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please keep commenting! I love to read what you think of the chapter.


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